


The Good Little Soldier.

by SheWasACemeteryStargazer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Death, Enemies, M/M, Mercy - Freeform, Soldiers, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:19:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWasACemeteryStargazer/pseuds/SheWasACemeteryStargazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War AU; Castiel and Dean are enemy soldiers. A short fic I wrote a few years ago for a lit contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Little Soldier.

Splinters of crystal glass rained down upon the fallen soldier, catching in his short, brown hair and in the creases of his crimson-stained beige uniform…they shimmered like the purest drops of rain, he absentmindedly observed through fading eyes of ocean blue. Yes, they were like the gentlest of rainfall, renewing, refreshing...and the ashes that fell upon him were the softest of snowflakes, though they burned bitterly against his pale skin, biting like the once-familiar icy snowflakes of his long-dismissed childhood.  
He sighed softly, his chest sinking with this fleeting breath, a wordless resignation. He always knew he would die alone. It was a harsh truth, but he had accepted it long before. His father had always been absent from his life, and his brothers had never accepted him…he vaguely hoped he would find family in the military life, a family beyond blood, a “band of brothers”, but his deluded daydreams and TV fantasies just went on to fail him, too.  
The soldier stirred, his gaze flickering to his rifle, his only true friend, his family, his salvation, his comfort; it had been kicked away in the heat of battle, and now seemed impossibly far from him…how desperately upsetting it was to fathom that ten feet had become an impossible distance to reach.

Castiel wouldn’t give up, though…he would always be the fighter, the loyal, determined one, the good little soldier. 

With gritted teeth, he forced himself to crawl, his fingernails clawing and breaking as they scratched at the cracked, barren, concrete ground. The only company that surrounded him were his fallen comrades, dying or deceased; the streets were quiet, and all was still around him, except for the dilapidated houses and buildings that burned, consumed by tongues of amber and carmine that climbed high into the pearl-grey, smoke-streaked sky.  
Two large fragments of shrapnel shimmered with blood in the flickering light, caught in the soldier’s back like shards of bone left from broken wings…it was as if he were a fallen angel, his wings torn from him as he fought for a cause that in his heart, he would never entirely understand. 

…And yet, how faithful the good little soldier was, even to that which he could never comprehend.

He was about six feet away from the weapon when he heard footsteps, a uniform march that echoed above the crackling of the disintegrating buildings and the distant rattling of gunfire. He saw five figures cloaked in blue uniforms pass by, enemy soldiers, but he continued to drag himself towards his rifle, hoping they would allow him to die in peace…he was no threat to them, surely they would be able to tell.  
Suddenly, black leather boots with dirty brass eyelets and thick onyx laces appeared in the dying soldier’s path, separating him from his firearm. He glanced up, his tired, sapphire gaze meeting that of an enemy soldier, a tall man with piercing, emerald eyes, and a weary, war-worn demeanor…war was hell for the enemies, too, though Castiel and his comrades were usually quick to forget that.  
“Hey, soldier…what do you think you’re doing?” The stranger crouched down in front the fallen soldier, the flightless angel. He didn’t intend to harm him, but he had seen the other man trying to reach his rifle…the clever bastard. Stubborn too, to try to fight back even as he was dying.  
_“…Rifle…I…”_ Castiel struggled to get each word out, his voice a weak, almost inaudible pleading. _“…Die…with…my rifle…must…”_ He collapsed, his arms giving out and his face landing against the bloodstained concrete.  
The enemy soldier’s gaze flickered away, as if it bothered him to see this stranger’s suffering. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before; death was a common thing to him, really, but dying…watching someone die was always an emotional experience. Sometimes, the emotion he felt was greed, even lust, a hunger for another’s torment, a need for the agony and destruction…sometimes it was indifference, another life that he could have saved, but didn’t quite care to. And still, some other times, it was an uncomfortable guilt, a gnawing, a quiet emptiness that sank into the pit of his stomach.  
Hesitantly, he looked over to the rifle, reached out and took it, examining it only to find that it wasn’t loaded…there wasn’t even any ammunition in it.  
“…What is your name?”  
The enemy soldier couldn’t explain why he felt the guilt that he did…he believed in his cause. He believed that he was a soldier of justice, a defender of righteousness. He was Lieutenant Dean Winchester, leader of the 2nd platoon of Delta Company of the Circle C Allied Forces, sworn to defend the rights of all, to fight to create a peaceful nation from the ruins of a battered dystopia. 

…And still, why did it pain him so deeply to watch as this singular life, an enemy’s life, faded before him?

“Come on, tell me…what is your name?”  
Castiel just watched the man silently through half-opened eyes of azure, frightened and untrusting of the stranger who had taken such an interest in him, the unpredictable threat that loomed above him.  
The enemy soldier sighed and reached for the other’s neck, his warm, slender fingers finding the tags that hung around it. “Private First Class Castiel Shurley,” He muttered softly, reading off the title before he gently let the tags drop against the ground with a faint clatter. “…You fought bravely, soldier,” he murmured, gently tucking the battered gun into Castiel’s arms. 

*****

Splinters of crystal glass rained down upon the fallen soldier, catching in his short, brown hair and in the creases of his crimson-stained beige uniform…they shimmered like the purest drops of rain, like the gentlest of rainfall, renewing, refreshing...and the ashes that fell upon him were the softest of snowflakes, clinging to his thick, onyx eyelashes. 

Castiel did not die alone. 

He died to the familiar warmth of a weapon in his arms, and the kind whispers of an enemy who loved him more than family ever could.


End file.
